Memories
by Namine3419
Summary: He was just a boy, but everyone thought him a beast. No one would take him in, save one; Tornac, castellan of the Emperor Galbatorix's castle. Reflecting on the past, will the man believe he made one fatal mistake: thinking of Morzan's son as his own?
1. Chapter 1

**Memories**

**By Lindsay R. Honosky**

"Did you hear?"

"That _boy_ is Morzan's son?"

"He must be a horrible little thing!"

"A real demon!"

"What of his mother?"

"The son of Morzan and the fabled 'Black Hand'? He must be a very troubled child."

"Indeed, an orphan at that."

"Who in their right mind would want to raise that. . . that _beast_?"

_That beast. . . beast. . ._

Yes, _beast_; that is how they addressed this poor green-eyed child of no more that four, if even that. I watched him closely for a long while, trying to understand the mindless gossip of the local nobility while His Majesty placed a white rose respectfully over the woman Selena's grave. Of course, this was all show; he was quite furious that someone as valuable as the Black Hand managed to be bested by an illness. Poor, dear Selena, having to die here in the wretched place with the title of the Black Hand, instead of what you should have been. A beautiful, kind woman who fell in love with a monster she thought a prince, used for the monster's gain, then being kept prisoner by the threat of something dire happening to a child she barely saw. I wonder even now, "Did she ever find happiness?" I hope with every fiber of my being that you did, dear Selena, and that the lowly gardener you were so fond of was your real prince.

The crowd dwindled down to nothing soon enough. The king and a few of the higher nobles remained, discussing some droll political topic that would never interest the castellan of His Majesty's castle. The boy, he remained as well, staring blankly at the fresh mound that covered his mother. No tears stained his cheeks, for how would one cry tears for the dead if they rarely knew them alive? A wet nurse and an empty castle room were his only companions in life; not even his father had shown him affection. No, that black-haired beast only showed him cruelty, the scar on his back a testament of that. A sudden swell of pity made my heart feel as though it would shatter as I thought, "And he will wear his father's face for the rest of his life." Undoubtedly the king would try to use the boy in the future for some cruel purpose; train him to be as heartless as the rest of his generals and _other_ unsightly minions.

My fingers were digging into my palms as I whispered, "No." This boy will not suffer the same fate as his mother. This boy will not grow to be as cruel as his father.

The soft autumn leaves that had fallen to the ground crunched softly beneath my feet as I walked closer to the grave, standing in front of the small boy. He stiffened, but did not look up, as if he were afraid I would be offended by his gaze. As softly as I could, I asked, "Did you know her?"

Shocked that I had actually spoken to him, the boy managed to mumble, "Sh. . . she was my mother." And all at once, the boy began to cry. The king and his party raised their eyes for a moment, watching him. No pity showed on their elegantly painted or stately faces, only a slight disgust at a display of weakness. The king himself only smiled his wolfish half smile, as if he drew pleasure from the small boy's wailing sobs.

An anger I never knew I had erupted then, and when anger rears its head, bravery or stupidity take control of your body and mouth. I marched over to the group, bowed to the king, and asked, "Sir, I would like to raise the child."

Three nobles gasped, the other two only stared, while the king studied me for a very long while. Finally, when I thought he would say nothing, he asked, "And why do you wish this, Tornac? Surely you do not wish to burden yourself with such a, " he looked at the boy again, who was still crying, "_burden_."

An elderly woman who resembled that of a peacock sneered at the boy, "And he has such horrid breeding! Morzan as a father is fine enough, but that. . . that harlot! Such an unsightly creature could never hope to breed anything but bastards."

An idea hit me then, and I held back a smile, "A child of such low standing would never do in a house of higher birth, my lady. I request that I take him, so as not to sully the hands of ones such as yourselves."

The king's face became unreadable, "Morzan was a dear friend of mine; I planned to raise him myself."

Stunned silence filled the graveyard. Fear gripped my every being. Not for myself, but for that pitiful crying boy behind us. Panic threatened to take over my thoughts, making me stupid, until the boy's cry cracked through the air once more. "He is weak, Your Majesty. Let me, the leader of your guard, the protector of your castle, raise him into a warrior that would put his father's skill to shame!"

"And you are sure you can accomplish this? I have very high hopes for young Murtagh."

I bowed as low as I could without my nose touching my toes, "I do, Your Majesty."

Many things ran through my mind as to what his "high hopes" could have been, but hopefully, on some whim of the Fates, I could save the child from them. It was quite for another long moment, the boy had stopped crying. A bird chirped in the willow nearby. Galbatorix looked at me then to the boy, then back to me, "Then raise him to the best of your ability, Tornac, but remember this: when his time comes and I deem him ready, I shall take and use him as I see fit." Before I could respond, the king spun on his heel, walking briskly toward the nearest gate to the castle's left side garden.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I felt weak. I did not know of what fate the king had in store for the boy, but hopefully I could save him from it.

The boy hadn't moved, the only thing different in his appearance were the puffy red eyes and glittering paths down his cheeks from his sorrow. I knelt by him, once again watching him stiffen at my approach, once again seeing that spark of fear ignite in his eyes. I never wanted to see him like that ever again. "What is your name, boy?"

He looked as though he'd forgotten it, as if it were nothing more than a title someone addressed him by on very rare occasions. Still keeping his eyes on the grave, he stammered, "M-M-Murtagh. Murtagh," then, the look of the innocent child vanished, and I saw then and there the capability for this innocent being to become the monster his father was, "Morzanson." He said it like a curse.

Then I put my hand on his shoulder, and again he turned into that frightened boy of four.

I smiled, "Well, Murtagh, I am Tornac Son of None. You are to be my ward from now on, do you understand?"

For a while he just looked at me, as if I were some monster peering out of the cracked door of his closet. Then, ever so slowly, he shook his tiny head, dark brown hair swaying back and forth into his wide green eyes. I sighed, then laughed slightly, "Do you fear me so, boy?"

"I . . . !" He bit his lower lip, "No?"

I laughed at the question; of course he would fear me. He had no reason to trust me, no reason to trust anyone for that matter. I stood, "You'll have your answer soon enough, Murtagh. In the meantime, however, you will accompany me wherever I go, do whatever I need to be done, and listen to my every command. Understood?"

A defiant look flashed across his face and vanished just as quickly, and he meekly replied, "Yes, sir."

And that was that. This boy was no more of a beast than I was at that age. If only I had known how dear he would be to me then, maybe I would not have made the same mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Memories**

**By Lindsay R. Honosky**

"What did he do again?" I tried to keep pace with the angry cook, but I guess his rage fulled his steps for it was hard to talk with him face to face while understanding his slurred words. The cook, Danel, I believe, had a very round face with small, piggish eyes. A small mustache rested above his rather pink lips, which I thought was funny, since the man had somehow managed to singe off his eyebrows over the years of slaving away in the king's kitchens. I quickly dodged a lantern that jutted from the wall, to focused on hearing his complaint than where I was going.

Danel rounded on me, "Honestly Tornac, have you taught him nothing? The other boys in the castle know far and well not to mess with my chickens!" He stopped, so suddenly I stumbled a bit to stay with him. His expression had softened, "Well, maybe it isn't _your_ fault. I mean, well, you know."

I raised an eyebrow and asked cooly, "I know what?"

"Everyone in the castle knows! Come on, who could hope to raise Morzan's son to be a good man--"

"I believe that is none of your business, _cook_. Now, show me where he is before my patients wears thin and I report you to your superiors." Danel bowed, his face going back to its original infuriated state, as I marched behind him in my own cold fury.

Seven years. Hadn't within the course of seven years the boy proven he's just as normal as everyone else? Of course, Murtagh is a rather shy boy; almost to shy for his own good. I can hardly blame him, what with the other boys being either to old or to young to be proper friends, and of course his parentage always plagued him. Other than that, he's a very sweet boy, if not stubborn as an ox, a very quick learner, and shows a lot of promise in the sword. Maybe to much promise. . .

"We're here, _Ser_ Tornac." Danel announced in a clipped tone.

The place was a pigstye, which, being a chicken coop I guess it isn't that much different. However, there were broken eggs everywhere, along with scattered feathers, broken cages, hay strewn this-way-and-that, and chickens everywhere. Of course, right in the middle of all this chaos, sitting on a tiny milking stool, was my young ward, his black-brown hair in disarray with little pieces of straw or a feather poking out here and there. His arms and legs were covered in scratches, nothing to serious, but in such a filthy place, the would need to be treated soon. His eyes were glued to the floor, as if studying his boots would let him escape his punishment. He would brood a lot, this boy; his way of dealing with the less savory things in life.

I cleared my throat and crossed my arms.

Emerald eyes shot up instantly, and a guilty smile spread across his tiny face, "Tornac!"

Usually that smile would get him out of trouble, but this seemed to be a little more serious than most of his antics. I stood there, my face stone, "I would like to hear what happened here," Danel began to shout and I held up a hand and glared at him, "in a calm, quiet tone, if you please."

Danel coughed and straightened his stance, "Very well. I was just minding my own business, making bread for tonight's dinner, if it please you ser, and all the sudden I hear my chickens going mad! So I grab my hatched, the one I keep on the wall ser, not one I use for cooking, and start running towards my coop to see what the trouble is. Why, for a half second I think that somehow a fox got into my chickens, but that can't be the case, since His Majesty protects us from such things and all, so I only start getting more and more nervous. Well, then I see a few of the squires come running out of my barnyard, and why, they tell me that they saw _this _little monster," he glared at Murtagh, "harassing my poor chickens! Kicking them, breaking their eggs, stabbing at them with a pitch fork--"

"That's a lie!" Murtagh cried, his face flushed with anger.

"It's the truth and you know it, you little mongrel!"

"You wouldn't know the truth if it came up and bit you in the backside, you stupid pig man!"

"_Pig man_?!You ungrateful brat! I should give you a good whipping myself!"

"Like you could catch me you stupid, fat, _pig man!_"

"Enough!" I shouted, causing both of them to stare at me. Once they had quieted down, I asked the boy, "Murtagh, is this true?"

"Of course it--!"

"Without shouting, please."

"Yes, sir." He took a deep breath; he always had trouble speaking to people, but he'd gotten better over the past years. He looked at his hands instead of our faces, "I, I mean, this is a long story."

Danel barked a hard laugh, "See there, Tornac? He doesn't want to waste our time when he knows he's guilty already!"

I smiled reassuringly at the boy, "We've got all the time in the world, Murtagh. Now please, if you would be so kind." I saw his eyes drift to one of the windows nearby, and I noticed three shadows disappearing from view. Looking back, I saw Murtagh frowning, a deep hurt in his eyes. Instantly I knew what had happened, but I kept quiet to see what the boy would do.

Murtagh sighed deeply, "I did it. I wanted to know where eggs came from, since the books I'm allowed didn't really tell me _how_ or _where_ they came from. So I came here, to see if I could watch and learn. But, well, I tripped over the pitch fork," he pointed at the farm equipment, "and crashed into the cages. I guess they all got knocked open, because when I looked up there were chickens everywhere. I tried to get them back in the cages, honest! But, well, they were a little faster than I thought, and their claws and beaks are really sharp, and--"

"Do you expect me to believe this? What interest does a ten-year-old boy have with chicken eggs? You're lying through your teeth, boy, and I won't stand for it!" Danel took a step towards him.

I extended my arm to block him, "_I _will deal with his punishment as I see fit, Danel. Now that this is over, you should go back to your work; the king will be most displeased if you do not have his supper ready in time."

"Of course, ser, you are right." He shot a grin at Murtagh, "Hope you weren't planning on sitting down within the next week, boy."

Murtagh stuck out his tongue.

"Why you little--!"

"Murtagh, come." I grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, dragging him out into the open air. The cook shouted something behind me, but all I heard were the tiny giggles coming from the writhing creature I held in my hands. I assumed he was making multiple faces at the poor cook, who was getting louder and louder as we got farther and farther. A small smile traced my lips, but it vanished before the boy saw it.

Once we were clear of Danel's wrath, and the prying eyes of the squires I'd seen watching the whole thing, I stopped near a willow tree and placed Murtagh in the grass. I stared down at him, studying him for a while. He sat on the ground, legs and arms crossed, refusing to meet my gaze. I hid a laugh as his lower lip protruded slightly, "Pouting is unbecoming of a knight."

"I'm not a knight," he continued sulking, "and I don't want to be one, ever. If knights are like those stupid--" He stopped suddenly.

"Like those what?"

"I don't want to say."

"Murtagh," I sighed, exhausted, "what am I going to do with you? I took you on as my ward to teach you how to _behave_! And here you are, destroying chicken coops!"

"They weren't destroyed! And . . . and, well, it's not like I did it on purpose."

"Oh? Then why were you there? I highly doubt it was to do as you said."

"I . . .!" He sighed, "I was, I just wanted, I mean," I could see tears brimming his eyes, "I just wanted to fit in."

All the pieces had come together by then. I sat beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, "You can tell me what happened; I won't say a word of it to anyone."

He was quiet for a while, then his head dropped and he said, "Chett and his friends, Jason and Grenn, they said that they would be my friend if I did as I was told. Well, then Chett said that they were going to go play in the chicken coop, that there was something really special inside that the stupid cook kept hidden from everyone else. They said they needed someone like me to get it too, or else something really bad would happen." He started drawing in a small dirt patch near is foot, "Well, we go inside, and nothing was special about that place. It smelled bad, and was noisy, and dark, and stupid. I was about to ask why we came when Jason opened up the first cage. The little chicken, it wasn't doing anything bad; I thought its white feathers were pretty. Like the kind I pull out of my pillow sometimes. But, well, Chett started saying, 'Look at this stupid bird!' and then Grenn said, 'I bet it would be less stupid with a quick lesson from a boot!'. The other boys laughed, but I didn't think it was funny. I asked them not to hurt the bird, that it wasn't doing anything wrong. I guess they got mad at me then, because they started to throw straw and stuff at me, then when I tried to run they pushed me down and Jason sat on me until the other boys had let all the other chickens out. Then I heard a bunch of them chirping, or backing, or whatever it is chickens do, and a lot of flapping and angry noises. When I looked, Chett was poking one with the pitch fork, and Grenn was kicking a few others. I told them to stop, I did! But they didn't listen to me." He wiped his face with his bare wrist, a line of mud appeared across his face where tears once were, "Then Jason got off of me and ran to the door, the other boys following. I tried to get out, I did, but they shut the door and locked it on the other side. I tried to put the chickens back, but they were all so angry, and they scratched and kicked at me whenever I tried to grab them, some of them even chased me!" He shot up then, his face in a determined frown, "But I wasn't scared! Don't think I'm a coward or anything!"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Anyway," he continued, "then I heard this really angry voice outside, and I started pounding on the door for him to open it. Well, that was when the stupid cook came in and saw the mess. The other boys were there too, but they started saying that I had done this and that, and I just got so angry that I, well, I tried to punch Chett in the nose. But he's bigger than I am, and older, so all he had to do was hold me by the head; and he laughed too. All of them did, except the cook."

I sighed, looking at the small boy next to me. Ruffling his hair, I said, "Well, that certainly isn't the way a knight should act, but they are still young, and will learn the proper ways soon enough. However, why didn't you tell Danel this? It wouldn't saved you a lot of trouble. I have to tell the boys' knights what happened here anyway."

"No!" He pleaded, "You can't say anything! I don't want them to think I'm a coward _and_ a snitch!"

"Murtagh--"

"Please Tornac!" Tears were in his eyes again, "They already stay away from me enough! If they knew I told on them, they'd hate me even more."

_Such a cruel life, this child has_, I thought, staring into the pleading green eyes. And all because of his last name. I stood, helping him up, "Very well, Murtagh. I shall say nothing more of this. However, I'm not going to punish you for something you didn't do."

"But if you don't, then Chett'll know I told you."

"Alright then," I thought for a moment how to fix this problem, "for two weeks you are not to go to the yard and practice your swordplay. Instead, you'll be at the range; it's about time you learned they ways of the bow."

"Archery? But--!"

"No 'buts', understood? You wanted a punishment, so there it is."

"But I'm no good with a bow! People'll laugh at me!" He started to pout again.

I laughed, I couldn't help it, "Well then, you should practice hard so people don't have an excuse to laugh at you anymore."

"You're laughing at me now!"

I laughed again, this time a little harder. The boy, even more angry, began to hit my lower leg as if that would stop me. I lifted his tiny frame as high as I could, his hair touching the fingers of the willow tree and smiled, "Now now, none of that. Murtagh, you need to know that hitting people is not the proper way to deal with them. And," I put him back down, "I wasn't laughing at you, well, not in the way you think."

"Huh?"

"I mean, I wasn't doing it to make fun of you. I was laughing because I'm glad to know you." I smiled warmly at him.

He stared at me blankly, a slight blush on his face, "I don't understand." He stammered.

"I mean, I'm happy that you're around," I put my hand on his head gently, "son."

He stared at me in shocked silence, then a small smile appeared, like a lily blooming for the first time, "Son? Me? Really?" Then a sudden fear glinted in his eyes, "But, no! Tornac! The people, they, if they know that, then won't they hate you too?"

"Let them. If they hate you then they're obviously not good people to begin with." I saw him trying to work out what I had said in his head, so I ruffled his hair once more and began to walk towards the Archery Range. Turning back, I saw him still standing there. My son, this tiny little boy without a friend in the world would be my son, and I dared the world and everyone in it to try and change that. How foolish that dare was, "Come on boy! If you don't hurry, the sun will have set and you'll be shooting in the dark!"

His head popped up, and I heard his tiny voice shout, "C-coming!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Memories**

**By Lindsay R. Honosky**

**Reviewers: Thank you so much for reading my story! I want to apologize to those of you who have read my other story, _Pale Hope_**, **and I haven't really started on its second installment. But, well, after reading _Brisingr_**,** I've sort of just lost the flow for that story. I'll try my best to keep with it.**

**Anyway, about this story. I thought that it would be interesting to see things through Tornac's point-of-view, since he's mentioned so little in the stories and is such a big influence on Murtagh's life (even though it's painfully obvious Paolini doesn't care much for Murtagh . . . sadface). So thank you for reading this story, and I'll keep updating as soon as possible. Please review, and constructive critizism is always welcome! And above all, PLEASE ENJOY!!**

"Keep your knees bent! No, not that way; what, you think by stooping that low your opponent won't hit you? Now, watch where I put my feet and _stay loose!_"

"This is impossible! We've been at this for _hours_ Tornac!" Murtagh, stabbing the longsword into the dirt, huffed over to the side of the yard and leaned against the wooden fence. It was a cool October day, the leaves on the trees just now turning into their full coats of browns and golds, and the boy had grown almost up to my chest by now. He looked much older than his fourteen years, which I could hardly blame him for wanting to act older than his age. His hair reached down to his shoulders now; he refused to let anyone near it since his mother died. Most of the baby fat had melted away from endless sword practice, revealing high cheek bones and a pointed chin, much like his father. Thankfully, he still bore the eyes of his mother; those deep emerald orbs that only grew more intense over the years.

I laid my own weapon down and walked towards him, removing my helm, "I know this is _frustrating, _learning a new style of swordplay, but if you want to be prepared for another attack--"

"If we left, we wouldn't have to worry about it." He snapped, staring at the ground moodily. It seemed as if, every year around his birthday, some would-be assassin came out of nowhere and decided that now would be a good time for revenge, for loved ones or some other that was slain by Morzan, or just an idiot who thought they could win favor with His Majesty by smothering a young child while they sleep. It started out with a good many when he was younger, but I guess after the boy had maimed a good dozen or so of the fools, they started to trickle down. However, a trickle still isn't a drout, and I was _damn_ sure to make Murtagh ready for anything.

I stared at my hands, helpless, "You know we can't leave, Murtagh. I would be--"

"Abandoning your duty?" He laughed harshly, "Yes, you are one of the most valuable swords in the kingdom, Tornac, but you are hardly expendable."

"I swore an oath, _boy_, that I would protect His Highness and his people until my time on this Earth was at an end. Now, speak no more of this," I stood, suddenly very wary. A soft breeze gently soothed my burning face, the sweat feeling like cool water flowing down my forehead.

I was about to walk away when I heard Murtagh asked, "Why do you follow him?"

I turned, "Excuse me?"

"Why?" He didn't meet my gaze, but looked at his hands instead, "I've never really met the king before, not privately anyway, and there's nothing very special about him. I mean, I couldn't see myself just blindly following a man who sits here, safe, while the people of his country suffer beneath his reign." Then his eyes met mine, the green pools searching for answers desperatly, "I want to know why. Why do you follow a man who allows people to steal babes from their mothers before they are even given a name? Why do you follow a man who raises taxes for the more unfortunate while he allows those of the higher ups to go free of this responsibility? And why would you follow a man who single-handedly destroyed the Ride--" As if the air around him were choking him, Murtagh stopped suddenly, his entire form shaking.

I just stood their, not knowing what to do. Then the words, the worst thing I could have said in that instant, escaped my lips before I could chain them away forever, "Are you asking me this, or Morzan?"

I'd never seen such a fury before in my life. His head shot up, emerald fire alive in his eyes, "What?"

"I'm sorry, I've misspoken--" But it was to late, for before I could finish my sentence, Murtagh shot toward the Main Hall of the castle, tearing bits of practice armor off as he did.

I sat, holding my head in my hands. How could I have said something like that? Especially to an already rebellious teenager who's on edge for his special birthday "surprise". A jolt of fear ran through me then, for he was running in a blind rage, alone, in a castle that had repeatedly attempted to take his life. I stood, running after the boy as fast as my legs could carry me. Now, I'm not going to say that I caught up with him instantly, for as the boy aged, so did I, and not in a favorable manner. My sword arm grew sore at the joins, and my fingers ached as I gripped my hilt. I tired quicker, and sometimes I felt worse getting out of bed than crawling into it. You can imagine then how easy it was for a fourteen-year-old boy to loose a forty-three-year-old man.

It must have taken me three hours to search the entire Main Hall, passing elaborate tapestries, beautiful paintings by artists either long dead or hidden in his or her forest, and statues of great heroes and mighty beasts that were so elegantly carved, they seemed alive in their own haunting way. However, I never even so much as caught a glimpse of the boy, my heart slowly crawling to my throat. My thoughts raced frantically, _Where could he have gone? Surely he's to old to just be grabbed! What if it was a magic user? He can shield his mind well enough. . ._ Then, in the corridor between the towers that led to his room and the Eastern Hall, I saw him standing in the light of a nearby window. His entire body was stiff with what I guessed was fear, his eyes wider than a doe's when she knows the wolf has finally cornered her. A silhouette of someone loomed not to far before him, however due to the glare of the sun, I could not make out the features. Instead, I just quickened my pace, hoping against hope that I could get there before something happened.

I was half way there when I heard _his_ voice.

"Ah, well if it isn't young Murtagh! My, you've grown into a fine young man. Your mother would be proud." He stood there in such diminished splendor that for a moment I didn't realize who he was. The king chose to wore a simple red tunic with a black, long-sleeved undershirt beneath it. He wore simple leather pants, the only exception is that they were black and had the look of long use, with simple rider boots and a small short sword resting by his hip. Around his head was a simple circle of silver, accenting his graying beard and gray-blue eyes. A smile was on his face, yet it was the type of smile you would expect a viper to give a mouse before its final strike. He came closer to the boy, "Getting tall, aren't we? Morzan was a tall man, you get that honest. And his looks, of course, you should think your dear mother for your eyes. Morzan had the eyes of a dog, one blue and one black! I can't remember the breed, do you know?"

He stood, so silent for a moment I thought he'd turned into one of the statues I'd passed earlier. Then, in a very nervous tone, I heard him say, "H-husky, I believe, Your Grace."

"Yes! That's it! A most beautiful breed of dog, wouldn't you agree?" He clapped Murtagh on the shoulder, smiling, "I see Tornac here has taught you more than mere swordplay, haven't you ser?"

This time I froze, not aware that he knew of my presence. I saluted and tried to hid my surprise, "I have tried my best, sire."

"And a fine job, Tornac, a fine job! How old are you now, boy? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Fourteen, if it please Your Grace."

His Majesty's eyes widened, "Fourteen? By the Gods, almost a man grown! If I remember correctly, today is your birthday, is it not?" A shy smile spread on Murtagh's face, and the king laughed, "Well, it's a good thing you have some humility. Your father, bless his soul, would've had the entire castle in an uproar over the birth of, oh, how did he put it? I believe he said it was the 'Day-the-Greatest-Human-Being-Came-Into-Existence'. Ah, but enough about your father," a sympathetic smile crossed the king's lips, "I know it's a _touchy_ subject with you. How is your back, boy?"

"It's healed, Your Majesty." Murtagh replied stiffly.

An awkward silence filled the hall. I coughed, trying to clear the tension, "Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, what honor do we have of your visit today? Normally you're locked up in your study, or on some political outing."

"Ah, yes! Always to the point, eh, Tornac?" He laughed then, the notes of his voice echoing up and down the hall. Once his mirth had subsided, he said, "I was searching for you, actually, to speak of," his eyes flashed to Murtagh, "_certain_ matters."

A cold pit formed in my stomach, "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Ah, but such a meeting can wait for another day. Why, I wouldn't want to ruin whatever plans you had with the young Murtagh here! You're only fourteen once, you know! Oh!" The king, if only for a moment, had a suspicious glint in his eye, and I felt as if something terrible were about to happen. The king snapped his fingers, then clasped Murtagh around the shoulder, "I guess it would be poor of me to know it was your birthday and not give you a present, eh?"

"No, Your Grace! Don't trouble yourself with--!"

"Bah, you are the son of a dear friend of mine! What would he say to me, if he knew I was so stingy with his son for thirteen years, not even stopping by to wish him a birthday greeting. No, you'll get something this year, yes." With this his attention turned back to me, "Do you mind if I borrow him for a moment, Tornac? It'll only take an hour or so."

_An hour or so for what?_ Was my first thought, while my instincts told me to take the boy and run as far as I could with him until freedom or death took me. This man that stood before me, my king, wore so many different masks that it was hard to tell who he would be from one minute to the next. As a young man, I had followed him like anyone would their liege lord, raising high in his armies to prove my loyalty without question. And then she came, that woman from a little mountain village, her big green eyes so innocent and pure, so in love with the greatest knight in the kingdom. And then I saw what happened to her, and my entire world was flipped on its shoulder. Of course, in this closed space, in the presence of my king, I could only bow and say, "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Very good! Well then, Murtagh, follow me. And keep a brisk pace; I hate stragglers." Murtagh looked back at me once more, to see if it were alright. I nodded and waved him off, hoping against hope that nothing happened.

**XXXXXXX**

The sun had set behind the castle walls by the time he returned. I sat patiently while he wondered across the yard, a curious frown upon his face. I called him over, and he quickened his pace slightly. It wasn't long before he sat beside me, resting once again on the simple wooden fence. I looked up into the setting sky and asked, "Well, what was the king's gift to you?"

"It was. . . strange," he paused for a moment, admiring the different reds and oranges of the dusk sky, "he brought me to some room I'd never seen before. A secret study, he said, and led me down a long corridor. I could hardly see anything, then suddenly a blinding light shone through the middle of the room, and these two _stones._ . ." He trailed off, "Well, they weren't like any stones I'd ever seen. One was so green I thought that it could easily shame any emerald set before it, with very thin golden veins running through it. Kind of like marble." A smile quickly appeared on his face, "But the other, it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. It was such a beautiful red, like the shades of a rose in full bloom, but it also had veins; white ones. It had the haunting beauty of blood on fresh snow." He looked at me, frowning, "Why would the king show me something like that?"

Disquieted, I answered simply, "I don't know."

"Maybe it meant nothing, he. . ." He started fingering a lock of his hair, a habit he'd developed into lately, "He isn't so bad. The king, I mean."

"Oh?"

"I had imagined this _being_, you know, someone I would be beneath. But he talked to me just like you do, without any fear or hatred in his eyes. In fact, he seemed generally interested in what I thought about this and that, though some of his questions were rather strange."

I raised an eyebrow, "How so?"

Murtagh shrugged, "For some reason, he wanted to know if I knew magic, or any form of it. He asked what I knew about my father and the Riders, what kind of weapon I preferred, things of that sort. Then, when we were in the room with the stones, he asked which one I liked the most. Of course, I said the red one, and he gave me this, very unsettling smile. As if he were looking at me and could see me like no one else could. But," he shook his head, "maybe I'm just being paranoid."

I sighed, "Murtagh, you asked me why I follow the king?"

"I don't want to start that again--"

"I follow him because, when I was a little older than you, I joined him willingly. I served for twenty some years in his army, never questioning my loyalty, until I saw how quickly this place _changes_ people. And it always seems to happen to people who the king shows great interest in. I've seen how quickly His Majesty can change from a magnificent and charming leader, to a cruel, heartless dictator. You must be wary of him, for you still have the chance to do as you wish." I sighed, feeling very much my age.

"Why can't you leave?" He asked, a note of fear in his voice.

"Where would I go? I have no family, no home to call my own. I have a good life here. And," I ruffled his hair, something that annoyed him now in his older years, "if I left, who would look after you?"

"Yes, well, you forget, _old man_, that I've already bested you twice in our practice matches."

"Aye, but only with the hand-and-a-half sword. You're very decent with a short sword, at best, but I pray you never fight a foe with a longsword, least you become even shorter than the blade then you are now." He gave me an embarrassed glare, and I laughed harder than I had all night. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I smiled and said, "Now, I think it's about time I showed you _my_ present."

"I thought you promised not to get me anything," he said, trying but failing to hid his surprise.

"Yes, well, I lied. Now, are you going to follow me or not." He nodded, and I started off towards our destination, aware of his cautious eyes burning a hole into my back.

It took us less than five minutes to reach the stables. I stopped outside the door, nodding to the nearest stable boy to open the doors for us. I held back a laugh as an anxious smile appeared on the boy's face. With a slight tilt of my head, I said, "Go on."

"What?"

"You'll find it in the last stall on the right. Now go on, before I go to sleep standing!"

I didn't have to say it again. Murtagh half walked, half ran to the doorway, disappearing out of sight within the dimly lit stable. I waited for a while until I heard a loud gasp, then he shouted my name. Smiling, I walked into the stable, the penned up horses wikkering softly as I walked past; a few snipping at me for a piece of apple or sugar cube. I found him where I told him to go, a boyish grin plastered to his face. He looked up at me, then quickly darted his gaze back to the muzzle he was slowly stroking, "Is he really mine?"

"Of course! What, you thought I'd tell you to go in here for a piece of straw?"

"He's beautiful. . ." Murtagh said in an awed voice. I was so happy that I was grinning like an idiot myself. Two of the finest war horses the king had in his stables had recently had a colt, and many had bid on the tiny creature. However, being captain of the guard has its advantages, and thankfully this horse was going to a kind master instead of some idiotic noble who would only use him as a bragging right and forget about him the rest of the time. The colt was a beautiful deep gray, with soft brown eyes and a black mane. He was old for a colt, but very well tempered, and had already been broken as well, so he would be ready to ride with a few months. Murtagh ran his fingers through the colt's main, "Thank you. Thank you, so much."

"It's about time you had a proper horse to ride," I said, rubbing the beast's nose. It snorted, then tossed his head lightly.

"How much--?"

"It doesn't matter. Now," I laughed, "a great steed needs a great name. What should it be, Murtagh?"

A sly smile played on his lips, "You both have gray hair, maybe I should name him after you."

"A poor choice for a name," I snapped, "I'm not worthy of such a beast."

Murtagh gently guided the horses face to his, staring him eye-to-eye, or as best he could at least. Laughing, he asked, "What about it, boy? Are you Tornac?"

The colt rose onto his back legs, a loud whinny echoing through the stable. Coming back down, he gently locked his teeth on the shoulder of my shirt. Tears were in Murtagh's eyes as he laughed, "Well then, there's your answer. Tornac it is!"

I sighed, smiling but still slightly annoyed, "This is going to be _quite_ confusing."


End file.
